New Faces eBook

“You’re a darling,” he said as he
obeyed. “But what I can’t understand—­”

“It’s not your turn. You may talk
after I finish if I leave anything for you to say.
See, I go on: You are going to marry—­”

“The most beautiful woman in the world.”

“That reminds me. What is she like?
I’ve not heard her described for ages.”

“Because there was no one in New York who could
do justice to her.”

“You are the knightliest of knights. Go
on. Describe her.”

“Well, she is neither very tall nor very small.
But the grace of her, the young, surpassing grace
of her, makes you know as soon as your eyes have rested
on her that her height, whatever it chances to be,
is the perfect height for a woman. And then there
is the noble heart of her. What other daughter
would have buried herself, as she has done, in a little
mountain village—­”

Miss Knowles looked quickly about the luxurious room,
then out upon the busy avenue, then back at him, suspecting
raillery. But he was staring straight through
her; straight into the land of visions. His eyes
never wavered when she moved slowly out of their range
and sat, huddled and white-faced, in the corner of
a big chair.

“And all,” Jimmie went on, “so bravely,
so cheerily, that it makes one’s throat ache
to see. And one’s heart hot to see.
Then there is the beauty of her. Her hair is
dark, her eyes are dark, but her skin is the fairest
in the world.”

“But what puzzles me,”, said the genial
Jimmie, “is your knowing about it all.
I never wrote you a word of it, and as for Sylvia—­by
the way, did you know that her name, like yours, is
Sylvia?”

“Yes,” said Miss Knowles, “I had
even guessed that her name would be Sylvia.”

“You’re a wonderful woman,” Jimmie
protested. “The most wonderful woman in
the world.”

“Except?”

“Except, of course, Sylvia Drewitt.”

“Ah, yes,” said Miss Knowles. “Yes,
of course.”

THE SPIRIT OF CECELIA ANNE

“And all the rest and residue of my estate,”
read the lawyer, his voice growing more impressive
as he reached this most impressive clause, “I
give and bequeath to my beloved granddaughter and godchild
Cecelia Anne Hawtry for her own use and benefit forever.”

The black-clothed relations whose faces had been turned
toward the front of the long drawing-room now swung
round toward the back where a fair-haired little girl,
her hands spread guardian-wise round the new black
hat on her knees, lay asleep in her father’s
arms. For old Mrs. Hawtry’s “beloved
granddaughter Cecelia Anne” was not yet too big
to find solace in sleep when she was tired and uninterested,
being indeed but nine years old and exceedingly small
of stature and babyish of habit. So she slept
on and missed hearing all the provisions which were
meant to protect her in the enjoyment of her estate
but which were equally calculated to drive her guardian
distracted.